The Long Road Home
by LCFC
Summary: Sam is dying. How can he tell his brother when there are no deals left. Can Sam be saved?
1. Chapter 1

Sam does his shirt buttons up slowly, fingers shaking. He glances down at his feet, wiggling his toes and realising that his boots and socks are still in the basket under the gurney.

He looks up to see the doctor writing something on her pad. She glances at him, expression blank, purely professional but her eyes are kind, sympathetic, full of pity.

Sam bends down to pick up his boots and goes through the laborious task of pulling them on, fastening the laces. When he finally gets up he is sweating and he begins to cough, hard, his chest aching with it.

The doctor waits, hands him a tissue and a slip of paper.

"These will help with the coughing, ease the pain. I can give you something to help you sleep as well."

Sam swallows, "Thanks," he says, but it sounds ineffectual and she nods, handing him another slip of paper.

"Your brother is outside," she adds, but Sam already knew that, already knew that Dean wouldn't have left the waiting area, let alone the hospital, knowing that Dean wouldn't go anywhere without Sam.

Maybe, when he was younger, Sam might have railed at the unfairness of the world. He might have shouted and screamed that he was entitled to some happiness, to normal, to the same things as everyone else had. As he had grown and events had overtaken him, he stopped questioning so much, stopped praying eventually, letting his body and, more importantly, his mind go numb, just coping, concentrating on just coping.

Sam had been special, a psychic, Sam had died, Dean had made that fucking deal and gone to hell. They had lost their father, their mother and most of their loved ones to that fucking demon and their lives had been, for the most part, pretty grim.

But Sam had gotten Dean out of hell. He had done it and he had his brother safe with him. It had taken two whole years for Dean to recover, for Dean to be Sam's big brother again, but now Dean was almost back to normal, he was eating again, hitting on girls, wearing that old, creaky leather and leaning out of the Impala singing Bon Jovi. They were hunting again, small fry granted, but they were back on the road, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam.

Sam tucked the piece of paper into his jacket pocket and nodded to the doctor. She shook her head for a moment and opened her mouth to speak, but Sam lifted his hand to stop her, his own smile forced.

"Don't," he said, "just don't."

His brother was sitting on a black plastic chair. It looked uncomfortable, hard and much too small for Dean. He looked up when Sam came in and the relief in his eyes was palpable. Right there and then, Sam knew he couldn't tell him, couldn't, in all faith, open his mouth and tell Dean.

There were no deals left, but Sam was in no doubt that, if there were, Dean would be at those crossroads in a second, damning himself once again.

Sam sighed, he didn't want this for his brother, he wanted Dean to be happy, to maybe meet a girl, like Lisa or Cassie, to settle down, have kids – Dean loved kids – make a life for himself. Sam knew that Dean wouldn't do this, wouldn't ever leave Sam. Sam also knew that Dean couldn't, wouldn't go on without Sam, wouldn't, didn't want to be alone. It was Dean's greatest fear, the loss of his small, ever decreasing family and Sam didn't want to even think about what was going to happen when he was gone.

"Sammy?" Months ago, Dean would have tried to hide his emotions, would have put on a game face, closed himself off, but things had changed now, they had been through so much, seen each other in vulnerable situations, said goodbye more than once and not even attempted to hide their tears. Dean got up off the chair and took Sam by the arm, squeezing tight as if to make sure that he was real and whole, and "what did the doctor say?"

"Just a bad chest infection," Sam was aware of how hoarse he sounded, how tired he looked, his face too thin, his hair long and unwashed, dark shadows under his eyes, "she's given me some stuff to make it better," he smiled, trying to make it real, "told me to rest up for a few days, you know, nothing strenuous."

"Guess Bobby will be getting a visit then," Dean gave his arm another squeeze; the relief in his eyes growing with every word Sam spoke. Sam hated lying to his brother, hated it. He had thought all the lies between them were long gone, that they had confessed everything, that there would be no more secrets.

"Yeah, well, he told me he gets lonely at nights," Sam was relieved to have something else to talk about, to take Dean's mind off Sam and his illness, to stop Dean from asking further questions, to stop Sam having to tell lie after fucking lie.

"Are you sure you are ok to travel?" Dean was eyeing him up, biting his lip and shaking his head, "I mean, only two days ago you were coughing up blood Sammy, I can't tell you how worried that made me."

"Yeah, I told you, just a severe chest infection – give me a few weeks and I'll be fighting fit again," Sam swallowed through the lump in his throat, blinking away traitorous tears, wanting to give himself over to Dean, let his big brother hold him and make things better.

"Lets get the stuff and blow this joint then," Dean grinned, lighter now and ready to go, "hospitals make me nervous."

Sam slept in the car, head resting against the cool glass. He didn't dream anymore, hadn't had a vision since old yellow eyes died and the car felt like home to him, one of the few homes he had ever really known.

There was something comforting about the leather interior, the soft thump of mullet rock, the scent of gun oil and salt permeating every corner of the Impala. Sam had grown up in this car, done his homework in the back seat, and learnt how to drive behind her wheel had his first kiss pressed against her hood, the girl's hands on his waist, gentle and shy.

He opened his eyes when the engine cut out and Dean drew the car to a halt. He blinked, once or twice and felt Dean's hand on his forehead, stroking back his hair, that familiar face close to his, green eyes dark with concern.

"You're hot," Dean murmured, his hand still on Sam's skin.

"Thanks – so are you," Sam hoped that the joke would lighten the moment, but Dean wasn't biting. His brother shook his head, removing his hand and reaching inside the glove compartment for the pills that the nurse had given them.

"Take these," he handed them to Sam with a bottle of water and Sam took them, drinking the liquid gratefully, his throat easing with every swallow, "we'll be at Bobby's in about an hour – you ok with that?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded; he wanted to get to Bobby's more than he could say. He wanted to be able to tell someone, he needed to. Someone who could take care of his brother after – after – well who knew what Dean was like, who knew what Dean needed. He had to tell Bobby, to make arrangements, to make his peace with the world. He turned his head to his brother and smiled, "I'm ok with that."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby makes them coffee and makes some comment about Sam's pallor and Dean's stubble. They laugh and Sam coughs and Bobby sits him down with a glass of water whilst Dean feeds him his meds.

They eat well that night, Bobby is a pretty good cook and he makes more than they really need. Sam hasn't had much of an appetite for a while but he makes an effort to eat, knowing that Dean is looking at him, aware that Dean is watching his every move, just waiting for Sam to make a slip, watching to make sure that Sam is really getting better.

Sam's chest hurts, the pain is tolerable at the moment, but he knows that it is just going to get worse. He knows what is going to happen to him, he listened to what the doctor said and he has made some sort of peace with that, but, deep inside he is scared, scared of losing control of his body, of becoming weak and sick, of dying in agony. Most of all, he is scared of what would happen if Dean saw any of it.

Sam knows what he is going to do, but he can't do it whilst Dean is around. He has to get away from his brother or get his brother away from him. Trouble is, he knows that it isn't going to be easy, knows that Dean is likely to stick to him like glue these days, scared of losing the only family he has left.

They always share a room, even though Bobby has enough rooms to spare and Sam waits until Dean is sleeping the soft, relaxed snores coming from Dean's open mouth telling Sam that his brother is not going to wake up any time soon.

Bobby is in the kitchen, sipping coffee, just as Sam knew he would be. Hunters like Bobby don't need much sleep, living on a knife edge tends to do that to a person and Sam knows, by personal experience, that Bobby dozes during the day because he doesn't sleep at night.

"Hey," Bobby pours another cup of coffee and pushes it over to Sam. Sam takes it gratefully and sits, cross-legged, on the floor near Bobby's open fire. It is warm and homely and Sam feels a strange comfort seeping into his bones, relaxing for the first time in weeks. "You are looking pretty sick boy," Bobby continues, eyes narrowed and shrewd, "looks more than a chest infection to me, so, spill it, what aren't you tellin' that brother of yours?"

Sam blinked, surprised at the sudden brightness in his eyes, his throat thick with salt and fear. He sipped at his coffee for a long moment, trying to find his voice, his mind playing over that dreadful day in hospital, the doctor's sympathetic face, the fact that the X-ray didn't lie.

"I'm…I'm gonna die Bobby," he finally ground out, voice harsh, tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks as his old friend stared at him, aghast, unable to hide his shock, "They – they found a shadow on my lung. It's terminal – there isn't anything they can do…chemo might prolong my life but it isn't going to save it – I – I refused treatment – I don't want anyone to see me suffer like that, lose my hair, lose my dignity…I just want to – want to do it my own way," he had to stop then, his breath hitching in his chest, his stomach clenching painfully. Bobby stared at him for a long moment and then wiped a hand across his own face, eyes shadowed and unreadable.

"Dean doesn't know does he?" Was all he said.

"No, and I'm not gonna tell him." Sam's voice wavered a little but he tried to sound confident, determined, "there are no more deals left Bobby, but you know Dean, he'll do anything, try anything to make sure nothing happens to me. I won't let him do that again."

"And just how are you going to stop him?" Bobby's voice was gruff, anger colouring the edges, "that idiot brother of yours isn't gonna let you go anywhere, so disappearing ain't an option and I'm pretty sure he is gonna start noticing when you don't get any better."

"I need your help," Sam was aware of how vulnerable he sounded, how desperate, but Bobby was his only hope in this and he had to make him see how much Sam needed him, how much he was relying on him.

"Sweet Jesus, Sam, how can you ask that of me?" Bobby's voice broke and Sam was mortified to see a single tear trace its way down the older man's cheek and disappear into his beard, "you boys are the nearest thing to family I have in this world and I have already had to watch you suffer more than any man should have to do. I can't do this anymore Sam; I just can't – won't – do this anymore."

"Bobby…" Sam felt something break inside of him and he bowed forward, tears spilling from his eyes. The ache in his chest grew, the lump in his throat so big it threatened to choke him. He rubbed his hands across his face but to no avail, the tears kept on coming, hard and fast, his breath catching, hitching, his whole body giving in to the tremors that had long threatened to overwhelm it.

Strong arms came around him and calloused hands gripped his biceps. Sam gave into the comfort, burying himself into that strong embrace, bending over so that his head rested against a solid shoulder, his hands gripping soft cotton.

Sam sobbed; he cried for the mother he had never known, for his father who had given everything for his sons, for his girlfriend, his only chance of normal, for Madison, Ava, Andy and even Jake, for everyone in his life who was now dead and gone, but most of all, he cried for his brother, for Dean and for the life they would never have together.

Bobby held him as he cried, silent and stoic, as if he were a wall that could protect Sam from anything the world would throw at him. Bobby's tears were silent, still, and he supported Sam through his breakdown, still holding on as the sky turned yellow and daylight pushed night aside to welcome another new morning.

Sam had no more tears left inside of him. He felt worn out, worn down, completely broken. His chest was burning and he could his lungs rattling as they forced breath in and out. Bobby let him go and lowered him gently to the chair, handing him another cup of coffee, hot and sweet, sitting silently as Sam drank it, watching the younger man for any signs of sickness.

"I don't know what to do," Sam could barely speak, his voice harsh with crying, "What can I do?"

"You planned to get that brother of yours away from you and then to eat your own gun, didn't you?" Bobby's tone was neutral now, calm.

"That about covers it," Sam nodded, gulping down the last of the coffee, feeling it hot against his, already, tortured throat, "I know it sounds pretty lame – considering I've died once and considering all the things I've seen and done, but I don't want to die like this Bobby, I don't want to die thin and emaciated in a strange bed, surrounded by strangers, I want to end it my way, surely there isn't anything wrong with me wanting that."

"No Sam – there isn't, but you can't keep this all a secret from Dean – you know that. Hell boy, you know, deep down in your soul, that your brother would kill me and then himself if he found out that I'd helped you do this. I know that it is gonna hurt really bad Sam and that it isn't gonna be easy, but you have to tell Dean – you have to. There have been enough secrets, enough partings, enough deals. Let your brother in Sam; let him help you through this. Please."

Sam stared at the older man for a long time; Bobby's eyes were bright with tears and he looked so old and worn suddenly as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"What do you want Sam?" Bobby said, finally, "What do you really want?"

"I want to go home," Sam couldn't, wouldn't, cry again and he lifted his chin, one last futile stubborn gesture, "I want to go back to Lawrence – to see mom again – to have normal just for a while – if I tell Dean the truth – will you do that for me? For us?"

Bobby swallowed hard and nodded.

"For both of you." He said.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke with a start, hand under his pillow automatically, going for the knife that he had never gotten over the habit of keeping there.

"Its ok," Sam's voice sounded hoarse, rough, "it's only me."

Dean sat up, pulling his hand from under the pillow and rubbing his eyes with it. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes shadowed. He looked pale, wan and his hair needed a wash. Dean sighed.

"You haven't slept at all have you Sam?"

"No, but its ok," Sam forced a smile that didn't convince either of them and Dean reached out and patted his hand, awkwardly, still not really used to giving small gestures of affection, "Dean, I need – I need to talk to you."

"Sure Sam," Dean swung his legs out of bed and settled next to his brother, slinging an arm around his shoulders, "I'm all ears."

Sam was silent for so long that Dean wondered if he had heard his brother right. He could hear the rattle in Sam's chest; feel how skinny Sam was under his clothing. He hated it when his brother was sick, hated that he couldn't do anything to make him feel better. He gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze, "Sammy?" He began, "you wanted to talk."

"God, this is so hard," Sam, sounded terrible, his breath hitching, he was shuddering under Dean's touch and his eyes were dull and lifeless. Dean felt his stomach clench, his heart thumping hard in his chest, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

"Sam," he said again, "Sam, you're scaring me."

Sam took another long, rattling breath and began to speak. Dean could only stare at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. It didn't make sense, it couldn't be right. Sam had a chest infection, Sam had been released from hospital, Sam couldn't be sitting here on the bed talking about this – this thing. Dean felt his throat close and his eyes sting, unable to hear what Sam was saying anymore, his mind stuck on the one phrase that had come from Sam's lips.

Cancer – Sam had cancer.

He realised, suddenly, that Sam had stopped speaking, that Sam had gone silent and still. Dean could hear his own breathing, harsh and hitched; feel his hands trembling, his whole body shuddering along with Sam's.

"You – you are gonna leave me again Sammy," Dean hardly recognised his own voice, "you are gonna leave me again."

"I don't want to Dean," Sam's voice hitched, there were tears in those slanting hazel eyes now, "I – I didn't want to tell you any of this but Bobby thought you should know…I planned to walk away – but I guess you would have just come after me."

"You have to go back to the hospital," Dean got to his feet, pacing around the room, picking up boots, socks, shirts and stuffing them into his duffle, "you can have treatment right? You can have treatment that will help with this. You shouldn't have left Sammy, you can have treatment and you can get better – right?"

"Dean," Sam got to his feet, shakily, and put his hand on Dean's arm, stilling him, "treatment will only prolong my life – it won't – it won't save it – I'm – I'm dying Dean and there is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do."

"Damn you." Anger, hot and bitter, surged in Dean's gut and he grabbed his little brother by the shoulder and began to shake him, hard. "You don't get to check out on me again Sammy – you don't get to do that, there must be something, some deal we can make, some ritual we can try, I'm not letting you go little brother – no fucking way."

"Dean" Sam spoke again, shaking his head. "No deals ok? No rituals, no treatments – I just wanna stay with you – have normal with you – I just want to go home for a while – please – please – I just want to be with you."

"Sammy," Dean was aware of the tears that were spilling down his cheeks, salt stinging his eyes, snot dribbling from his nose, "Sammy – you can't – you can't leave me – Sammy – Sammy – not again – Sammy – please."

"I – Dean – please – for a little while," Dean felt Sam's long arms go around him, clutching him closer, he felt Sam's head drop onto his shoulder, felt the soft chestnut hair brush against his cheek. He recalled that terrible night in Cold Oak when Sam had been in his arms just like this, when Sam had slumped, cold and lifeless against him, when Sam had left him again, left him alone and afraid.

He had gotten Sam back from that – he had gotten his brother back.

This time there would be no resurrection, no coming back, no Sam back beside him in the Impala, no moaning about his music, no bitch face. Sam would be gone forever and Dean would be alone.

Dean's legs went from under him and he went down hard and fast, taking Sam with him. The two of them rocked together on the hard floor, sobs shaking both of them, one clutching the other, both of them believing that, if they held on hard enough, nothing could separate them.

Bobby found them like that nearly an hour later and he didn't even attempt to prise them apart. They were Winchesters after all and not even hell had managed to divide them.

Bobby was not about to try.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean watched as Sam slipped into a deep sleep. His brother was exhausted and, despite trying really hard, he had been unable to keep his eyes open a moment longer and he had dozed off in Dean's arms, body finally going lax and limp, almost a dead weight.

Dean called Bobby and, together, the two men got Sam on the bed and settled. He looked so pale that his skin was almost translucent, dark shadows forming beneath his eyes, his cheek bones standing out sharp and stark, his hair too long and dirty, hanging around his thin face.

"I'm going to help him," Dean turned to Bobby, his expression booking no argument, "I'm not going to stand here and let him die."

"He wants to go home boy, are you going to ignore his last wish," Bobby sounded stern, almost angry and Dean felt his face redden under the older man's scrutiny.

"It isn't going to be his last wish – but no – I'm not fucking ignoring it. I am going to take him home, I am going to let him have his 'normal', but I'm not going to stop trying to save him Bobby, I can't and that is why you have to look after him for the next few days."

"And where are you goin'?" Bobby frowned, opening the beer bottle in front of him and slugging it back, offering one to Dean and watching as the younger man drank it, gratefully.

"I have a few places I want to try," Dean said, swallowing the last of his beer and accepting a second, letting the cold liquid cool his burning throat, "I swear to you I'm not making any deals – I swear to you."

"On Sam's life," Bobby sounded resigned, a little angry, "I wanna hear you swear on Sam's life."

Dean stared at the older man for a long moment and Bobby almost flinched at the cold fury in those jade green eyes.

"I swear on Sam's life that I am not gonna make any more deals with demons or devils – ok?"

"Ok, I'll take care of him – but what do you want me to tell him when he wakes and finds you gone?"

"Tell him I've gone to make arrangements in Lawrence – it won't be a total lie – I am going there – just taking a bit of a detour – but no deals – I swear to you."

"Then God help you Dean Winchester," Bobby smiled, suddenly, his eyes bright and he coughed, pulling his cap over his eyes to hide the expression there, "because if anyone deserves a break it is you and that idiot brother of yours."

Nebraska was hardly on the route to Lawrence but Dean Winchester knew he had to go there, had to try. He found the place easily, by memory, and he pulled the Impala into the parking lot and turned off the engine, laying his head against the steering wheel, his heart beating hard in his chest.

There was no tent anymore, just the old house looking more run down and uncared for than ever. Dean felt guilty as he walked up the steps, his hands shaking as he rapped on the door. There was a long silence and then an old woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She stared at Dean for a long moment.

"What do you want?" Her voice was harsh, business like, "we don't want to buy anything you got to sell."

"Does Roy Le Grange still live here?" Dean managed to croak out, feeling hot under the weight of the woman's hostile stare.

"I'm his housekeeper – who wants to know?"

"Tell him Dean, Dean Winchester," Dean wondered if he was going to be turned away without even getting in through the door, but the woman nodded and shuffled off down the hall, hands in her apron pockets. Two minutes later, she was back, eyes still shrewd and cold.

"He says you can come in," she murmured, opening the door wider, "but you can't stay long – he needs his rest these days – poor soul."

Roy Le Grange looked older, worn down, his hair long and grey around his sunken face. He had lost weight and his clothes were darned and a little grubby. He lifted his head as Dean entered, a smile already forming on his face.

"How are you Dean?" His voice was firm but gentle.

"I'm – I'm fine," Dean sat down in the chair opposite Roy, "I don't know why I came really – but – but I need help and – and I didn't know who to turn to – what to do."

"God will listen," Roy said, softly, "God always does."

"I'm sorry for what happened – before – and for what happened to your wife," it sounded hollow from his lips and he was glad that Roy couldn't see the guilt in his eyes, see the tears that were beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

"Sue-Ann was dealing with things that were evil – wrong – and though I would never have wished her dead – she had to be stopped. There were no miracles here Dean – and for that – I am truly sorry."

"My brother has lung cancer," saying it made Dean's breath hitch, made it real, "he is dying – and I – I need to save him."

"I'm real sorry to hear that – but I can't heal your brother – there is no power here now."

"I thought maybe you might know of someone, I am looking for healers in Lawrence specifically – please – if you know anyone – help me."

"I know a few people," Roy smiled then and rang the bell beside him, "I'll give the names to my housekeeper – she will write them down for you – and – in the meantime – let us both pray for your brother – Sam wasn't it? Maybe God will listen to our prayer."

Dean had never prayed before – he knew Sam did – Sam had told him he did it every day. Dean had mocked him then but now he wished he had had Sam's faith. He stared into Roy's blind eyes and, slowly, fell to his knees, burying his head into his hands, feeling Roy's gentle touch on his head as the preacher began.

"Our Father – who art in Heaven…"

Dean murmured the words along with Roy and let images of Sam play through his head. A healthy, laughing Sam, the Sam that Dean wanted back, the Sam that Dean couldn't, wouldn't, live without.

Dean was going to save his brother or die trying.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Sam blinked, eyes heavy and immediately looked for his brother. He felt limp, weak, his chest tight and painful. He sat up in bed and swung his legs round so that he could sit on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his face and hair. He wanted to shower and maybe wash his hair, wanting to purge himself of the dirty, grimy feeling that clung to his skin.

"You're awake," Bobby poked his head round the door and smiled, "are you hungry?"

"I could eat," Sam forced a smile and stretched his arms above his head, wincing at the scent of sweat that clung to his body, "where's Dean?"

"He's gone," Bobby, said, his voice even, "should be back in a coupla days."

"Gone?" Sam could not keep the obvious panic from his tone and he swayed to his feet, wobbling disturbingly, "gone where?"

"It's ok Sam," Bobby came over and put his arm around the younger man, supporting him against his body, "I made him swear – he isn't gonna do anything stupid, I made him promise – I made him swear."

"Thanks," Sam smiled then, shaky but definitely there, "thanks Bobby."

"That brother of yours is an idiot," Bobby huffed, "both of you are bloody idiots if you ask me, always ready to sacrifice one for the other, I'm not gonna sit back and watch that anymore and I told your damn fool brother as much."

"Is he going to take me home?" Sam let Bobby lead him into the bathroom, watching with barely concealed relief as Bobby stared to run the bath, "Bobby, is he going to take me back to Lawrence?"

"Yeah, he's looking for somewhere for you to live, a job for himself," Bobby poured some lotion into the tub, "whatever you want Sam, your brother is gonna get it for you."

Sam nodded, cautiously taking off his shirt and undershirt, wincing as he gazed down at his naked chest. He could see his own ribs, see the flatness of his stomach, the way his jeans hung off his waist. He swallowed hard, pulling down the rough denim and standing only in his boxers. He saw Bobby glance at him and saw the older man turn away, rubbing at his face. Sam sighed, realising how bad he must look, how sick.

"I don't want to die like this," Sam said, as he climbed into the tub. Bobby kept his back turned and Sam saw his head move up and down in acknowledgement. "I wish that Dean had let me go that first time, at least then I died in the hunt, died for a reason," he chewed on his lower lip, letting the water flow over his heated body, breathing in and out, as he relaxed into the warmth.

"I know Sam," Bobby sounded broken and Sam felt a lump forming in his own throat, "I know."

"He isn't gonna let me go alone is he?" Sam poured water over his hair, rubbing in shampoo and working up a lather, "he isn't gonna let me die alone?"

"You boys make me despair," Bobby avoided his question but his tone told Sam all he needed to know.

Sam stared at the grimy wall of Bobby's bathroom and let the tears come. He had known, ever since he had told Dean the truth that his brother did not intend to live beyond Sam's death.

He recalled, with painful clarity, the day that Dean came to fetch him from Stanford, the hurt in his voice when Dean had told him he didn't want to hunt for his father alone. He remembered that time in River Grove when Dean thought he had contracted the deadly virus. He remembered Dean with the gun in his hand, ready to shoot Sam and then himself. Dean had told Sam then how tired he was, how he wanted to quit hunting. Then there was Cold Oak when Dean had, literally, sold his soul for Sam.

"Shit," Sam ground out, blaming the stinging in his eyes on the shampoo and the heat of the water, "shit, Bobby, please – don't let him do this."

"I can't stop him boy. I couldn't stop him after Cold Oak and I can't stop him now. He loves you more than life Boy and he isn't going to want to do this alone."

"What can I do?" Sam stood up on shaky legs and wrapped a towel around him. He felt clean and fresh but his insides hurt like hell and he couldn't keep the tears from flowing, feeling the unfairness of life weighing on him, holding him down, "I don't want him to die – I want him to live – that is why I got him out of hell – to live."

"Without you?" Bobby smiled, wryly, "there is no Dean without Sam, you should know that by now. It has been his one duty, your daddy's instruction to him on that fateful night '_look after Sammy_', and that is what he has done."

"Yeah," Sam smiled, wetly, his eyes on some distant point, thinking of his brother, of that big black car, of the passenger seat forever empty. "Yeah and he has done it so fucking well," he sat on the end of the tub and began to rub his hair absently, "then we should go back home as soon as we can – have some fun – be a proper family again – I want us to have that at least, surely – surely we deserve that much."

"Yeah," Bobby said, wiping at his own eyes, "that and so much more,"

He helped Sam to his feet and into the bedroom, appalled at how skinny and weak Sam felt, the disease having already begun to ravage his body.

Bobby left Sam to dress and then went into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner, watching as the sun set and darkness fell, stars rising as the sun set.

He wondered if Dean had found his miracle yet.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

One of Sam's worse memories was being possessed; he remembered losing control of his own body, watching himself kill the older hunter, watching himself hurting Jo. He had hated those few weeks, hated feeling trapped and helpless inside his own body. Now he felt the same, but it wasn't a demon that possessed him, made him weak, it was cancer.

He sat at Bobby's table, pushing the food around his plate, knowing that Bobby had spent hours making it, hours trying to make it palatable, tempting Sam to eat, to gain some strength. Despite this, he just couldn't face eating, his chest hurt and he felt sick to his stomach. He gazed out of the window, wondering where Dean was, wondering if his brother had found them somewhere to live in Lawrence, hoping that he had and that he would be back soon.

**000**

Dean stared up at his old house and shuddered. He had only been back here once since the fire and he remembered seeing his mom here, soft and young, as she had been before the demon. He felt a sharp stab of pain as he recalled the world that the Djinn had presented to him, his mom alive, his brother happy and engaged. Sometimes he wondered if he should have stayed in that blissful world, wondering if he could have found some sort of happiness there.

He couldn't understand why Sam wanted to come here, why Sam kept referring to Lawrence as home. Sam had barely known this house, barely known the life they had had here. They had fled Lawrence before Sam had turned one year old and lived on the road ever since. Sam had no connection to this house or to this town, apart from the fact that his mom had a memorial here and his dad's dog tags were buried beneath it, lovingly planted by Sam's own hands.

Dean sighed and gazed at the address that Roy Le Grange had handed him. He wondered if he should go and seek out help today, wondered if some sort of miracle was lurking within the walls of the local spiritualist church. He bit his lip and wiped salt tears away from his eyes.

The Winchesters, he mused, very rarely benefited from miracles, but surely, Sam deserved a chance.

Sam was a good man, despite his demon blood; he was spiritual, gentle and kind. He had so much love inside him and, if anyone deserved some happiness, then Sam did.

Dean got out of the Impala and stared up into the windows of his childhood home. He guessed the family they had saved several years ago had moved on, because the house looked empty, neglected. He could see the **'To Let'** sign in the window and he wondered if it were a sign, if fate was playing a trick on him.

He wondered if Missouri was still in Lawrence, wondered if he should visit her, make her aware of his presence. He guessed, knowing her as he did, that she had some idea that he was in town and he realised that it wouldn't be long before he saw her again.

Dean pushed the paper back into his pocket and took one last look at the house, head on one side, wondering if he could bear to live there again, if he could stand to step back over that threshold and really, truly, take Sam home.

**000**

Sam heard the roar of the engine and Bobby's dogs barking. He got out of his chair, rubbing his eyes and stretching, feeling his muscles crack. He peered out of the window, unable to keep a smile off his face when his brother got out of the Impala, grinning as he noticed Sam at the window, raising his hand in greeting.

"Hey," Dean looked tired as he entered, but he hid it well, giving Sam a hug that would have been unthinkable a few months ago but was perfectly acceptable now, "you look rested."

"Yeah – well – Bobby has been looking after me." Sam smiled, "feeding me up – you know – making sure I take my meds," he sat down on the couch and gestured that his brother join him, patting the seat next to him, so that Dean was forced to sit, "good to have you back man," he said, nudging Dean with his shoulder, "I've missed you."

"Me too," Dean leant in, letting Sam's warmth comfort him, feeling his brother there next to him, still fighting, still alive. He slung an arm around Sam's shoulder, wincing as he felt the bones poking through, once muscular, flesh. Sam felt the wince and shrugged, patting Dean's knee in a gesture of comfort.

"It's really ok, Dean," he said, softly, "I'm not in any pain really, chest is a little sore," he swallowed, hating to see the hurt and panic on his older brother's face, used to seeing strength and determination there, "did you find us somewhere?" He asked, finally, just glad to change to subject.

"Yeah, I found somewhere," Dean doesn't tell Sam he has rented out their old house, doesn't tell Sam he has three sheets of paper with names on them that might, just might, help Sam to beat this thing, doesn't tell Sam he has a gun in the boot of the Impala with two bullets, one for each of them.

Sam looks at his brother, eyes slanting, head on one side. Dean feels his face flush under Sam's scrutiny and, there it is, Sammy knows, Sammy knows.

"I'm kinda glad really," Sam's voice is soft, barely there, rough and harsh and not like Sam's voice at all, "glad that I'm not goin' on that final journey alone. Last time, last time I went into the dark it was kinda scary, there was no light, nobody coming to fetch me, nothin', not even Jess," he pauses for a moment, breath hitching, a single tear trailing down his cheek. Dean swallows down his own pain, the salt in his throat choking him. He shakes his head, but Sam lifts a long fingered hand and holds it still, staring deep into Dean's eyes. "I know what you are planning," Sam says, not giving Dean a chance to deny it, "I know what you are going to do and I'm ok with it, honest Dean, I am," Sam takes a deep breath and Dean hears, with horror, the rattle in his chest, "I don't want to leave you again," he whispers, "I just wanna ride shotgun with you – ok – just wanna ride shotgun with you for fucking ever."

Dean nods, tears prickling his lashes and stomach clenching hard. He hugs his brother closer and bends down to kiss Sam's messy hair, moaning, as he always does, about the length of it, striving for normality.

"Driver picks the music," he says, finally and Sammy laughs.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam sits in the Impala and stares at the house in front of him. It is freshly painted, the garden tidied up and oddly domestic things like new curtains in the window show Sam that someone has worked really hard here to make the house seem like home.

"Dean," Sam swallowed, "it is our house – our old house – how…?" he paused, breath hot in his throat. He didn't want to cry, he had cried so much he felt as if Dean would have to build him a fucking ark.

"It was vacant Sam, Jenny and the kids left a year ago and it has been vacant ever since. Just seemed the right thing to do somehow – you wanted to go home and – and here we are."

"Doesn't it…doesn't it bother you?" Sam knew what this house had meant to Dean, knew how painful it had been for Dean to come back here last time, "doesn't it bother you to come back here – after – after everything."

"It hurt at first – I'll admit to that – but it's ok now Sam – this was our house – our home – you never knew it, not really and I want you to know it now."

"Thanks," Sam rubbed his face, "thanks Dean," he stretched his arms out and grinned, a thread of real excitement running through his gut, "hey – can we go inside now?"

"Lead the way," Dean tossed him a set of keys, "I'll start bringing in the stuff."

The house was clean and freshly painted. The kitchen had been fixed up and the lounge knocked through to make a larger, more spacious room. There were two bedrooms upstairs and a small bathroom. Sam moved slowly round, realising it had changed considerably since Jenny and her kids had lived here and that it must have changed completely since the fire that had killed his mom.

The house had a feeling of peace about it; a feeling of stillness. Sam stood at the window and looked out onto the leafy streets, wondering what his life might have been like without the demon's interference, what Dean's life might have been like if his mom had lived and his father had carried on working as a mechanic.

He shuddered, shaking his head. Regrets or remorse were pointless now. He had to look to the future, however short it was going to be, however painful. He had his wish, he was home and he was with his brother. Nothing else mattered, nothing else could matter.

They hadn't many personal belongings and it didn't take long to unpack. Sam set up his laptop and started to make a list of the things they would need, silly domestic things like tea towels, soap dishes and rugs. Dean rolled his eyes and moaned as expected and Sam slapped him,

"Buying tea towels doesn't make you gay Dean."

When it grew dark, Dean suggested he take the car and buy them some takeout and a six pack. Sam couldn't drink because of his meds but he agreed anyway for Dean's sake.

His brother looked strangely pre-occupied, uneasy, as if there were something on his mind. Sam wondered what might be going through Dean's head because, despite years of trying, Sam still found his brother hard to read at times, particularly when Dean had his 'game face' on.

Dean pulled out of the drive and sped in the direction of the town. He didn't have long because he didn't want Sam to even start to guess at what he was doing. He bit his lip guiltily as he looked at the crumpled piece of paper in front of him.

He was going to save his brother.

The church was small and old, moss and mould growing on the tower and ivy creeping up the walls. There was an old, rickety looking graveyard out front and the front door was virtually hanging off its hinges. Dean got out of the Impala, his nose wrinkling at the scent of age and decay that hit his nostrils, his boots squeaking as they hit the damp ground.

"Mr Winchester?" The priest looked as old as the church, his hair sparse and grey, his face a mass of wrinkles. Despite his shuffling gait, his eyes were bright blue and alert, alight with curiosity, "can I offer you a tour of the church followed by a mug of very strong coffee?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean took the proffered frail hand and shook it gently. The priest smiled at him and, carefully, opened the damaged door, turning on the lights as he did so.

Inside the church was dim even in the glow of the electric light. There were two stained glass windows over the alter and a large statue of Jesus by the door. The pews were covered in rich red cloth and there were bibles laid out in front of them. Sweet scented flowers stood in a vase beside the alter and there was the dim scent of incense in the air.

"You get a lot of people here?" Dean perched on one of the pews and tapped the bible idly. He was always uneasy in church, despite his job and he felt sure that the priest could sense his doubts, felt sure that the priest was testing him.

"We have the faithful few," he smiled, "but times are hard and only a minority of people believe that God can help them these days."

"Do you think…do you think you can help me?" Dean's throat was sore and he felt as if there were a lump jammed there, painful and full, "that God can help me? Help Sam?"

"Your brother?" The priest smiled, gently.

"Yeah, my brother – he – as I told you on the phone – he has cancer and he is gonna die." Dean swallowed again, "I can't let that happen – not on my watch."

The priest's blue eyes deepened with sympathy, "sometimes, Mr Winchester, there is nothing anyone can do. If it is your time, then it is your time, it is all part of God's plan."

"My brother is only 26 years old," Dean felt an irrational spurt of anger, "he has done more good in his short time than most people do in a lifetime. He doesn't deserve to die like this, he doesn't and if his death is part of God's plan then I, for one, don't want to be part of it."

The priest stared at him, his face impassive. Dean swallowed again, wishing they could go for that coffee now. He felt his cheeks sting and his eyes burn and he rubbed his face, "I'm sorry," he said, finally. "That wasn't the wisest thing to say to a priest."

"Mr Winchester – Dean – I understand – I am a man of God and I deal with people's grief, with their loss of faith every day of my life. I know that it hurts and, believe me, everyone I meet; everyone I speak to feels the same. I have watched mother's lose their children, husbands lose their wives and it never stops hurting," he reached out and touched Dean's hand, his touch sudden and gentle, "all we can do is speak to God and hope that he listens."

"Will you try?" Dean bit back the tears he could feel building in his throat, "will you try and help Sam?"

"Bring him here on Sunday," the priest said, finally, patting Dean's hand again, "If there is anything I can do, be sure I will do it."

"Thank you," Dean squeezed the priest's hand and looked up at the statue over the alter, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

"I will pray for you both," the old priest said and moved slowly to his knees, "take care Dean Winchester and may God go with you."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Sam couldn't remember the last time he had stepped inside a church for something other than a job.

It was a bright Sunday morning and the sun was high in the pure blue sky, the air fresh and clean. It was the sort of day that makes you feel glad to be alive and Sam revelled in it, breathing in the scent of pine and grass, his tortured lungs rattling as he did so, a reminder of how short and how precious life had become to him.

The local doctor's prognosis had been grim. Six months at the most, he had confirmed, maybe longer if he would consider chemotherapy, but even then he would be lucky to see another summer.

Sam had accepted it now. He was in his own home, sharing time and laughter with Dean and he was happier than he had ever been. In some ways it was bitterly ironic. The fact that this thing; this thing inside of Sam was the only thing that had stopped them hunting. Sam wished that they had quit sooner, maybe travelled for pleasure. They could have seen the Grand Canyon, spent time on the beach, maybe even met someone, had a family beyond each other. Now it was too late and Sam was human enough to feel regret.

"Here we go," Dean smiled at him as he helped him into the hard, stone pew. The church was old, traditional and a strange choice. Sam frowned a little and shuffled on the seat, his ass cold. Dean put an arm around his shoulder, steadying him and he felt his brother tremble, felt the shudder go through him as he pulled Sam closer.

"I'm ok," Sam tried for a smile but it came out more as a grimace. He felt frustrated, sick. He couldn't keep food down much and he knew he was losing more weight, getting weaker every day, reliant now on Dean for almost everything.

"Yeah – you look great," Dean's tone was quiet, sarcastic but love echoed through every word, "and you need a haircut."

"I was trying for a pony tail," Sam laughed, weakly and Dean snorted. Several of the small congregation looked over and Sam saw one or two disapproving looks. He smiled to himself. Why did everyone think they were gay? It had been a long standing joke with them and now it helped to lighten the tone, to set his thoughts on something more positive. He snuggled in closer to his brother, his head resting on Dean's broad shoulder. Dean shifted and tightened his grip, his arm firm around Sam's waist.

The priest entered and everyone fell silent. He said grace and bowed his head, the whole congregation falling to its knees. Dean helped Sam down and stayed close to him, feeling the floor cold and hard beneath the heavy denim he wore, his nose twitching at the scent of incense and flowers.

He prayed then, harder and with more sincerity than he had ever prayed before. Beside him Sam shook with weakness and Dean willed him to stay, willed him to get better, willed him not to leave again. He felt such guilt then, guilt that he had forced Sam back into this life, guilt that he had given his soul for Sam and forced his brother to spend a year in misery and torment. He prayed God would forgive him for everything he had done, that God might look upon them with some mercy, that God would grant them a miracle.

"Stand," the priest said, suddenly and the congregation rose and stood. Sam staggered to his feet and swayed a little, Dean's hand on his back instantly. Sam felt strange, odd and he took a deep breath, lungs rattling.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was harsh with concern and the congregation turned as one to look at him. One put a finger to her lips and Dean gave her a glare, his mouth opening to speak.

"Sam Winchester," it was the priest's voice, loud and firm, "come forward and accept God's grace."

Dean swallowed hard, biting his tongue. The woman who had shushed him had the good sense to look ashamed and Dean lifted his head, staring at her with some defiance.

Beside him Sam swayed again and he hauled him up and against him, pulling him forward.

"Come on Sammy," Dean guided his brother towards the priest, his eyes on the old man's face, his lips still moving in desperate prayer.

"You set this up," Sam sounded weak, almost a little angry, "you promised me Dean, you promised Bobby – no more deals."

"With devils and demons Sam," Dean whispered, gently, "this is a little different."

"Is it? You remember Le Grange right?" Sam staggered at his side, legs weak, head fuzzy, "remember how well that went?"

"Sammy…" they had reached the alter and the priest put out his arms. Sam went down, his knees hitting the stone floor, his head resting on the alter cloth.

The priest looked at Dean, his expression serene. He bent forward and laid his hands on Sam's bent head, his mouth moving, the sound so faint that Dean could barely hear, only realising, after a moment, that the priest was speaking in Latin.

The congregation fell to their knees and began to echo the chant. Dean felt the hairs on his neck prickle and he remembered Nebraska, remembered how cold he had felt then, and remembered how wrong it all had seemed.

He swallowed his eyes on the priest and his baby brother. Had he done the right thing here? Had he bought Sam to the right place or was this just another trick? Was this another supernatural entity having fun with them?

Sam felt weird, his body trembled, his lungs burnt and the hand on his head seemed to be scorching through his hair. He couldn't lift his head, couldn't breath and he wanted to run, fear and terror tearing through his veins like fire, lights dancing wildly behind his eyes.

Then he heard it, the voice, soft, gentle and hauntingly familiar, a voice he hadn't heard since Salvation, a voice he thought he would never hear again.

"It's alright," his father said, deep and commanding, the voice from his youth, the voice that always made him sit up and follow orders, "everything is going to be all alright Sammy."

And Sam believed.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Sam went down and Dean caught him. His brother's eyes were closed, his mouth barely moving.

The small congregation leant forward watching, praying. Dean ignored them, ignored their glances, the look of pity in their eyes. He grabbed Sam and enveloped him, dropping to his knees and hauling Sam up along his thigh, brushing back his unruly hair and staring, with concern, at his pale, thin face.

"Take him home," the priest said, soft and sudden, and Dean looked up to see compassionate blue eyes gazing at him, "he needs to go home now."

Dean stared at the priest. He wanted to ask so much, wanted to know so much. He bent down over his brother's prone body and Sam stirred, eyes opening just a slit.

"Dad?" Sam mumbled. "Daddy."

"Sammy," Dean's heart contracted. He could feel the gentle throb of Sam's heart under his hand; hear the rattle of Sam's laboured breathing. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed, his hands trembling, "Sammy," he was aware of how vulnerable, how pleading he sounded, "Sammy, don't leave me, please, don't go now."

Sam frowned, eyes still closed. Dean lifted him, hauled him into his arms as if he were a feather, light and skinny from his illness, all the finely toned muscle gone. Dean was shaking, trembling, fear, irrational and cloying, rushing through his veins. Sam shook his mouth moving.

"Daddy," he said again.

Dean staggered down the aisle and out of the creaking oak doors. He kicked them open and carried Sam down the path and laid him, gently, into the back of the Impala.

He sat in the passenger seat, laying his head on the steering wheel of the car. He tried to calm his breathing, tried to stop his trembling. His brother was in the back seat of the car, talking to his dead dad and he was sure, positive, that Sammy was dying.

The car rumbled into life and he pulled out slowly, keeping quiet, no music, nothing. He wanted to be able to hear Sam's laboured rattling breaths, wanted to hear Sam's soft murmurs, his voice, harsh and pleading.

"Dad," Sam said again and Dean gulped back tears, his hand reaching into the glove box to pull out the gun. It felt heavy in his hand and he let it rest at his side as he drove on, the wheel gripped tightly in his other hand, his eyes on the road.

The house was warm, cosy. He put on the standard lamp and lay Sam on sofa, his hands in his brother's hair.

"I'm gonna call the doc Sammy," he said, false cheerfulness, "I'm gonna call him and everything is gonna be fine. Don't leave me Sammy, please, don't leave me now."

"Dean," Sam's eyes snapped open, "Dean – where? What the hell?"

"Sammy," Dean let out a breath, his head spinning to a stop, "Sam – God – Sam."

"I feel weird," Sam put a hand to his head and rubbed it, frown lines appearing between his brows.

"Bad weird or good weird?" Dean knelt beside his brother and kept his hand rubbing through his hair. Tears prickled on his lashes and he held them back so that Sam couldn't see.

"Just weird," Sam snorted a little, his mouth curving up, his eyes full of concern, "what happened Dean – that priest – he touched me – I heard dad Dean, dad told me everything was going to be alright."

"You just went down man," Dean gulped back stupid tears and sat back on his heels, studying Sam. His brother looked pale, stunned but ok and he was still here, still here, still with Dean, "you just went down and then – then you just started – started talkin' to dad."

"I…" Sam swallowed, "I heard him Dean, felt him almost, he – it was as if he were here."

"I thought you were going Sam," Dean felt foolish then, cheeks stinging with colour, "thought you had – you know – seen the light so to speak, thought you were…" he gulped again and rubbed at his face. Sam quirked an eyebrow, dimples showing.

"I'm not going anywhere without you big brother," he said, softly, "I promised that."

"Dad's dead Sammy, dad's dead and he went into the light – so – if you are hearing him – what was I supposed to think Sammy, what was I supposed to think."

"Dean," Sam opened his arms and Dean went into them without hesitation. He pressed his lips to his brother's hair and clung on, "Dean, listen to me, remember in Nebraska? Remember how you felt cold? How you felt wrong? This didn't feel wrong Dean, it felt weird, but it didn't feel wrong."

"Do you think…?" Dean trailed off, hardly daring to believe, "do you think that – that it worked Sammy? Did you think we have actually caught a break here?"

Sam swallowed and pulled his brother closer.

"I'm praying Dean" was all he said, "I'm praying."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Sam was dreaming.

He felt light, formless, drifting through something warm, intangible, his body relaxed, free of pain.

"Sammy," his dad, callused hands brushing through soft hair, "Sammy."

"Dad?" Sam opened his eyes and smiled. He hadn't seen his dad in so long and it made him feel warm, happy to see him again. He reached out in his dream and let his hand close around his dad's wrist, pulling his dad closer, wanting to touch and to hug.

"Sam," his dad sounded stern but kind, "Sam, it's time son, time to let go, time to relax."

"Dad?" Sam felt himself frown, still warm and self satisfied, "what do you mean?"

"You've done enough now Sammy paid enough. You have to let it go now son, find some peace."

"Am I dying?" Sam didn't feel afraid, just ready. He was tired, tired of hurting, tired of worrying. He just wanted to let go.

"Sam – you need to let it all go," his dad ignored the question, "stop feeling such guilt about things. Sammy, this, none of this was ever your fault. You mustn't blame yourself for your mom or Jess. You are a good boy Sam, a good son and I love you."

"Daddy," Sam felt himself flush with pride, "I'm sorry we fought, sorry that the last time I spoke to you I picked a fight with you."

"These are the things you need to let go Sam. They are killing you son, rotting you from the inside out. You need to set yourself free Sam. Give yourself a break. Stop hurting, stop hunting, relax and rest, have a life Sammy, have a normal life. You deserve it, you have been a good soldier for long enough. Let go Sam, let go and find peace."

Sam felt himself smile, felt his dad's wrist slip from his grasp. He floated away, feeling even lighter now, everything falling from him, his mind empty, his soul at peace.

Sam let himself go.

***

Dean wandered into the bedroom to check on his brother. It was a beautiful day, the sun was bright through the slatted blinds and he could see children playing across the way, laughing and play fighting, reminding him of himself and Sammy all those years ago.

He looked over at Sam and his heart stopped. His brother was pale, his eyes closed, mouth curved into a peaceful smile. Sam was still, his dark hair fanned out across the white cotton of the pillow, his hands folded on the coverlet.

"Sammy!" Dean rushed forward, hands on his brother's shoulders. Sam didn't move, didn't react, didn't even breathe. Dean gulped down panic and put his hand on Sam's chest, his heart pounding so hard he felt almost dizzy. "Sam!"

Suddenly his brother shot up in bed, a deep breath filling his lungs, his eyes wide and startled. Dean's hands fell away from his brother's shoulders and he stepped back, palms upwards, staring at Sam in some astonishment.

"Dean. Where's dad?"

"Dad?" Dean frowned and moved forward, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on Sam's chest, feeling the soft, reassuring throb of his heart.

"He was here, he told me to rest, I thought…," he swallowed and tailed off, seeing the look in Dean's eyes.

"You were dead, you thought you were dead?" Dean said, his throat rough, "sorry Sammy – but you are gonna have to put up with me for a while longer."

Sam found himself starting to grin, eyes bright.

"Dean," he began and he winced as he saw his brother's pain, "Dean."

"Yeah Sammy," Dean gave him a gentle squeeze.

"I'm kinda hungry."

"Yeah," Dean felt his throat tighten and he smiled at his little brother, relieved, "you want pizza?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned, wide and bright, "pizza sounds good."

***

After his fifth slice, Sam was beginning to wonder where his appetite had come from. He felt hungry, restless, his body twitchy and on edge. He wondered if Dean might let him go for a walk or maybe they could even go bowling or take in a movie. He wanted to do something, anything and he felt awesome, better than he had in ages.

All thanks to dad.

He grinned to himself, wait till he told Dean, his brother would get a kick out of that, Sam listening to dad, Sam doing what dad told him to.

He glanced over to where Dean sat, picking at his pizza. His brother looked pale, worn and Sam felt a sudden guilt. Twice in as many days Dean had believed him dead, no wonder it was taking its toll on him. Sam swallowed and reached forward, his hand on Dean's wrist, holding it in the way he had held his dad's in his dream.

"It's ok Dean," he said, squeezing gently, "when I go, I know its not gonna be long before you follow."

"I just don't want you to go without me," Dean sounded choked, "what if we….what if we get separated Sammy?"

"Hey," Sam swallowed and smiled, "whatever happens I guess we are both going to the same place."

Dean returned the smile, watery and weak and Sam squeezed his wrist harder, trying to tell his brother just how much he loved him, how much he meant to him, how much he owed him.

"I want to go out," Sam said, anxious to change the subject, "I'm feelin' kinda restless, can we go and get some fresh air?"

Dean looked startled for a moment, "I don't know Sam – I mean – you've been awful weak recently – you should take it easy…"

"I – I need to go out Dean," Sam squeezed harder, "please, I need to get out of this place for a while, see the outside while I still can."

Dean nodded, mouth pursed.

"Ok Sam – but just for a little while ok? Just for a little while."

***

As the days passed, Sam felt stronger, better. He finally had an appetite, he wanted to go for walks, he slept less and ate more. His chest didn't feel so tight and he couldn't quite put his finger on it but he just felt healthier and he wanted to share time and energy with his brother.

Dean watched him with some suspicion, still worrying, still concerned. He wouldn't let Sam walk too far, wouldn't let him do anything round the house, continued to cook Sam healthy meals and insisted in taking Sam to church every Sunday.

Sam found it, quietly, amusing. His snarky, ever doubting brother showing some faith, but he understood, he realised why. He never got called to the front by the priest again, but the old man always smiled at him, knowing and wise, making Sam feel warm inside.

***

The day of his check-up dawned bright and clear. Dean took him to the doctor's office and waited with him. Sam hated this, hated the stink of the hospital, hated the tests, the needles in his arm, his hand. He always felt sick afterwards and he wished they would just let him die in peace.

The doctor looked worried, harassed, even more confused than normal. He stared at Sam as if he had just grown two heads, his fingers playing over the paper of his notebook, his mouth curved upwards.

"Mr Winchester," he began and Sam felt his stomach clench, his heart rate quicken, "Sam…I don't know how to tell you this but…," Sam felt Dean's hand on his arm, felt his brother tense behind him, he stared at the doctor and leant forward, throat dry, "Sam – the cancer – the shadow on your lung – it – it – it's gone son, the cancer has gone."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

The car ride home was silent.

Neither of them spoke, there was no music, no cheering, nothing. Sam sat and stared at the road, watching the trees go by, looking at the rows of houses.

Dean let them into the house, key loud in the lock.

The light made the whole place look cosy, warm, welcoming. Dean turned on the fire and put the coffee pot on. The scent of coffee permeated the air and Sam's mouth watered.

He sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. He took a breath, big and clear, chest no longer rattling, no pain. He could feel himself shaking, his throat tight. Tears, sudden and unexpected, trickled through the gap in his fingers.

"Sammy…" Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother, "Sammy, when did you ever do what dad told you?"

Sam barked out a laugh then, strangled and wet and more tears came. Dean moved nearer, his arms coming up and around Sam's shoulders, pulling him in, pulling him closer.

"I can't quite believe it Dean," Sam sounded hoarse now, not the harshness from his illness but stark disbelief, "can't quite believe that we have actually caught a break."

"Believe it Sam," Dean's voice was gentle, filled with hope, "believe it."

Sam was silent for a long, long time. Then he lifted his head and stared at Dean, eyes wide and wondering.

"What are we going to do now?" Was all he said.

***

Sam lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep at all, his mind whirling with everything that had happened.

He was better, the cancer was gone, he was going to live.

All his life he had wanted to believe in miracles, wanted to believe in a higher power. Now he felt as if he had proof of it and he didn't know quite how to handle that knowledge. He had seen demons sure, angels as well, but this, this was different, this was something personal.

He turned over, pulling the sheets up around his chin. He felt warm, cosy, safe. He could hear Dean breathing in the bed across from his, his brother's presence comforting to him, the only thing he needed, the only thing he had ever needed.

They were home and safe and Sam wanted it to stay that way. He wanted to stay here in Lawrence, maybe go back to school, get a job, perhaps even meet someone. He wanted that for Dean too, a life away from hunting, from death and hell and destruction. Sam had already had one miracle and he hoped, prayed that there was room in his life for one more.

***

"So," Dean smacks a huge plate of eggs and bacon in front of Sam, "how do you feel about getting back on the road again?"

It has been a week, just a week, since Sam got the good news and already Dean is twitching to be up and away. Sam is glad to see his brother so happy, so carefree but – but he feels tense, twitchy, worried.

Thing is, he doesn't WANT to get back on the road again. He has found his peace, found his home, found his miracle. He just wants to go on sharing it.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is soft, "you ok?"

"Yeah," he prods a piece of bacon with his fork, his eyes fixed to his plate, "yeah – I'm fine."

"No pain?" Dean is concerned now and Sam can see it in his eyes, see his brother's worry.

"I'm fine Dean," Sam forces a smile because, physically, he's great, better than fine, fantastic in fact, "I'm fine, the cancer is gone and it isn't coming back, so stop worrying."

"You just don't look fine Sammy," Dean squeezes his shoulder, hand warm through Sam's thin tee, "you look kinda – well – spaced out."

"Do you like it here Dean?" Sam feels the words leave his mouth before he has the chance to recall them and he sees Dean's eyes narrow a little, his mouth opening and closing.

"Yeah – I do Sam – I rented it for us – made it home for us – of course I like it."

"Then why are you in such a god-damned keen to leave?" Sam doesn't mean to sound so angry but it comes out of him like that, an explosion of words and Dean steps back, his hand sliding from Sam's shoulder.

"I – hunting – it – what – I mean – what else is there Sam?"

"There's normal," Sam swallows, the lump in his throat huge and painful, "there's safe."

"We are safe Sam," Dean spoke as if he were calming a skittish animal, "old Yellow eyes is dead, I'm outta hell, you're alive and we have all the time in the world."

"Not if we keep hunting Dean," Sam swallowed again, tears pricking his lashes, salty and hot, "one day, one day something is gonna take one of us out and then the other is gonna be alone again – and Dean – fuck – I can't go through that again, I can't and I won't."

Dean stared at Sam, his eyes bright and he grinned, watery but warm.

"You quittin' on me Sam?" he said.

"Looks that way," Sam murmured with a smile.

TBC


End file.
